


Questions and Answers

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9724427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: It was useless. What was the point? No amount of talking was ever going to change that John wasn’t interested, and never would be. The only way he would be tempted to pull up house again would be if the practical advantages were enormous, and they just weren’t. Why else would he even consider it?A Post-Series 4 ficlet, in which Sherlock Holmes has a hard time asking for what he wants.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Engazed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engazed/gifts), [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts), [Besina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besina/gifts).



> Many thanks to my betas hiddenlacuna and Marta. Your suggestions and encouragement helped this fic see the light of day.
> 
> It is mere coincidence that I happen to be posting on Valentine's Day, but in light of that, please consider this a gift to all of my readers. I also decided to gift it to a few specific people who I felt might particularly appreciate it:
> 
>  
> 
> Engazed: because your enjoyment of series 4 inspired me to write about it.
> 
> Coat: because I remember your post listing your wishes for the final episode. You expressed interest in callbacks to the first episode, creating bookends of sorts and appreciating symmetry.
> 
> Besina: because I just thought you might enjoy a series 4 fix-it.

 

She was surprised, honestly, that he kept coming back. Once the crisis was past, a man like that didn’t normally continue with treatment. Especially since life appeared to have settled back into a semblance of normalcy. After all of the madness and mayhem, after Baker Street had slowly been repaired, the trappings of his earlier life seemed to have reappeared. He was back to solving cases on a regular basis. His relationship with his best friend was back on track.

So why did he keep coming back?

Ella was well trained in her profession, and it didn’t take many sessions for her to be able to read between the lines, to hear the parts of the story that remained untold.

“How is John doing?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “Good. Fine. John’s doing - fine.”

“Have you asked him to move back in yet?”

Sherlock dipped his head. The tips of his ears turned red. He was embarrassed. Interesting.

“No.”

She tapped the end of her pen twice on her notepad. “Why not?”

He squirmed in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. “It wouldn’t necessarily be… all that practical, for him to do so.”

“Oh? I would think he’d be thrilled to be back in the thick of things again. To be near where most of his friends are, with easy access to his support network.”

Sherlock frowned. He shook his head. “John is a very pro - independent sort of person. He doesn’t like to impose on or take advantage of people.”

“Do you spend much time with his daughter?”

Sherlock scratched the back of his neck. “A fair amount, yes. She’s a big reason why it wouldn’t work out very well. Baker Street is not the ideal environment for raising a small child. My lifestyle isn’t very conducive to it.”

“You could always make adjustments. Just like any other household that needs to accommodate a new addition.”

“There’s no - reason for them to move in with me. John can afford his own place, and he’s coping much better these days. He doesn’t need a flatmate. Plus, Baker Street only has two bedrooms. I mean, that arrangement would work at first, but eventually…”

Ella didn’t respond. She just waited. Several minutes went by, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock on the wall.

“John’s not gay,” Sherlock blurted. He flinched, as if startled by his own voice. “He’s stated so repeatedly, and when a man like him uses those words, the implication is that he’s straight. Lacking imagination as he does, he believes the same of me.” He laughed, sharp and bitter. “He even gave me a speech about how a romantic entanglement would ‘complete me’.”

“How do you know he was referring to a woman?”

“Because it was right after - it was right after I received a suggestive text alert from someone he recognized. A woman he assumed I had been involved with previously.”

“Assumed? So you hadn’t been. Involved.”

“No. At least not in the way that he thinks.”

“I see.”

“And even if.” He paused, swallowing hard. “Even if he let go of that assumption… about me… that still wouldn’t change the fact that he doesn’t feel that way about me.”

“How do you know? Have you asked him?”

Sherlock scowled. He slumped down in his chair, the very image of petulance. “What do you take me for, a fool? We’ve just recently repaired our relationship; I’m not going to risk it again just because I’m _lonely_.”

Ah, there it was. The confirmation of the great heart that lay underneath all of the superficial posturing and impenetrable armour. Sherlock Holmes was human after all, with all of the insecurities and desires that came with such a condition.

Ella glanced at the clock. “Our time’s almost up, Sherlock. There is something I’d like to say, though, before you leave.” He tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“You’ve talked before about your desire to be more open and honest with the people closest to you. To be more, shall we say, authentic. You have every right to ask for what you need, Sherlock. And who knows; maybe that’s all he’s waiting for. You won’t know, though, unless you _talk_ to him.”  

Sherlock shrugged, a hopeless look on his face. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I already know the answers because I can _see_ them as plain as day.”

She pursed her lips. “Alright then. Just something to keep in mind."

  


_If only it were that simple,_ Ella thought to herself as she jotted down some final notes after he left. After all, the inability of people to take head knowledge and convert it into useful action was the reason her profession existed in the first place. And ‘head knowledge’ was rarely cut and dried; it was frequently arrived at from a specific perspective. Not only was Sherlock dealing with what he perceived was _John’s_ assumptions, but his own as well.

At least he was taking steps to figure it all out.

 

****

 

Sherlock exhaled the smoke from his lungs as he kept up a brisk walk through the park. He always treated himself to two cigarettes following a session with Ella. It was the only time he allowed himself the vice these days. It was a drastic improvement from the weeks following the Sherrinford incident, when he would sometimes go through an entire pack in one day.

John had immediately put his foot down, declaring that he couldn’t stop Sherlock from killing himself one way or another, but that he was under no circumstances to smoke around Rosie. Since Sherlock loved Rosie almost as much as he loved John, it was no hardship (mostly) to stick by that rule. As both of them were spending increasing amounts of time at Baker Street, his cigarette habit gradually dwindled to almost nothing.

He deserved this rare indulgence, especially after being forced to evaluate his life using ‘emotional context’. Why was he even making these appointments anymore?

He’d long ago moved on from the reason he had sought out therapy in the first place. After the loss of Mary through death and John through estrangement, he had found himself adrift with nothing to help anchor him. He had found support of a sort through his biweekly sessions with Ella. It was either that, or the drugs.

But he had worked his way through all of that, he and John. He hadn’t been sure what had compelled him to continue going  - other than the fact that he always felt lighter afterwards. There were things he told Ella that he could never say to anyone else, and although his unburdening drained him, it was also accompanied with a sense of relief.

And apparently, as proven by today’s session, he was able to say things to her that he hadn’t even admitted to himself.

Irritated, he threw down the remainder of his cigarette and savagely snuffed it out with his bespoke heel. He thrust his hands in his pockets and quickened his pace, shoulders hunched forward. It was useless. What was the point? No amount of talking was ever going to change that John wasn’t interested, and never would be. The only way he would be tempted to pull up house again would be if the practical advantages were enormous, and they just weren’t. Why else would he even consider it? Because Sherlock wanted him to? Ha! That was laughable.

 

_“How do you know? Have you asked him?”_

 

His traitorous thoughts were like an unseen obstacle set in his path. Stumbling over his own feet, he barely caught himself before he fell to the ground. A flare of heat suffused his face as he sensed other people staring. He kept a scowl plastered on for the purpose of keeping said people out of his way for the remainder of his walk home.

Unbidden, traitorous hope also bloomed anew in his chest. Try as he might, he couldn’t quash it.

Because he always missed _something_ , didn’t he?

  


***

  


The rest of the week flew by in a flurry of professional and domestic activity. Baker Street was back to the condition it had been in before the explosion, with several added improvements. The days were filled with a revolving door of people traipsing in and out of the flat on various errands: Mrs Hudson to do her ‘housekeeping’, Molly to deliver samples from the morgue, Lestrade with new evidence. There was so much going on that Sherlock was sufficiently distracted from his inner turmoil, at least during the daylight hours.

John was there several days in a row helping Sherlock investigate and research a cold case that had been put back on the front burner in light of recent criminal activity. He brought Rosie with him each time, and they both ended up staying for dinner (takeaway for Sherlock and John, actual nutritional food prepared for Rosie by Mrs Hudson), after which a James Bond DVD was invariably popped in with Rosie passed out at their feet.

But at the end of each day, after he said goodbye and sent them on their way, Sherlock stood at the window watching them leave with both an ache constricting his chest and an all pervading emptiness threatening to overwhelm his entire being.

Then for the rest of the evening, the flat would suffocate him with oppressive silence and haunt him with the ghosts of the two people he wanted more than anything to stay and never leave.

  


***

  


Several weeks passed, during which some engaging cases arrived for Sherlock to sink his teeth into. Many of those were solved within hours; others dragged on for a few days. But they were all challenging in their own way. John was at his side more often than not, and Sherlock couldn’t be happier. This was what he lived for, a harkening back to the golden age of his career, when it was him and his blogger living out their ridiculous adventures. Just the two of them against the rest of the world --

Something started to niggle at the back of his mind and scratch at the doors of his palace, but it was elusive and hard to pin down in the midst of all the busyness. He wasn’t _ignoring_ it exactly, it just didn’t seem to warrant much scrutiny when there were far more interesting things going on in the real world.

For the first time since Mary’s death, Sherlock felt that happiness might possibly be within his reach.

  


It was a Friday night when what had been right under his nose the entire time finally crystallized for him. It had all felt so natural, so _right_ , that it hadn’t registered that something didn’t quite add up.

Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope and stared at John, pecking out a blog entry across from him at the kitchen table. The sounds of Rosie babbling and a rattle shaking as she played in her play pen drifted in from the sitting room.

“When was the last time you went to work at the surgery?”

John peered at him over the top of his laptop, forehead wrinkled in confusion. “What?”

Sherlock sighed. “Your job? You do have one, yes?”

John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. The look he gave Sherlock was a combination of disbelief, exasperation and amusement. Sherlock blinked.

_What in the world had he missed?_

“Sherlock. I haven’t worked at the surgery in months.”

Sherlock blinked again. “What? But… why not?”

“Well, we’ve had a lot on our plates lately, haven’t we? Our home blew up, we went on a wild James Bond adventure, and then after all of that there was the cleanup and rebuilding. I took a leave of absence to deal with all of that.”

Sherlock’s brain took a few minutes to reboot. It seemed to have frozen on ‘ _we’ve_ had a lot on _our_ plates’ and _‘our_ home’.

“But… but what about now? Everything’s back to normal, why haven’t you resumed work?”

John shrugged, apparently unconcerned that he hadn’t had access to his main source of income for _months_. His mouth quirked up ever so slightly. “I decided to take some additional time for myself - well, for me and Rosie. Try to make up for some of the parental neglect she suffered in the weeks immediately after - well. After I became a single parent.” John paused as a momentary flash of pain crossed his face. Sherlock wanted to smooth out the furrows in his brow and kiss it all away.

“Anyway, I much prefer working with you on cases. Sort of like the good old days, right?” John flashed him a brilliant smile, and Sherlock’s heart stuttered.

“How are you managing though? Financially?”

John’s eyes skittered away to fix on a point on the floor near Sherlock’s feet. A blush rose over his face. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Well, you do give me a portion of your fee when we work private clients. Plus - well, Mary had a substantial nest egg that she left us… me and Rosie, that is. I’ve already put a good chunk of it aside for her education, but - yeah. There’s that.”

 

Oh.  

 

Sherlock swallowed hard. The missing pieces fell into place to finally allow him to see the big picture. What he saw was equal parts exhilarating, thrilling, and fucking _terrifying_.

He really had no excuse now, did he? A more perfect time was never going to present itself. What, honestly, did he have to lose? All the signs were there.

He always missed _something_ , didn’t he?

 

 _It’s now or never, Holmes_.

 

“Sherlock? You okay?” John was looking at him oddly, head tilted and eyes radiating concern.

“Da da da!” Rosie announced from the other room. She clapped her hands and squealed.

Sherlock closed his eyes, relishing the sounds of _home_. He wanted this - oh how he wanted this - twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

 

_Then *ask* for it, you idiot._

 

Sherlock opened his eyes. He cleared his throat.

“John.”

“Sherlock?”

Damn, his throat was dry. His mouth too. He licked his lips. Cleared his throat again.

“John. In light of this new information - “

John snorted. Sherlock glared at him.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just that - it’s not really new information, Sherlock.”

“You never said anything!”

“When have I ever needed to _say_ anything?! You just always know everything. For Christ’s sake, you knew what therapist I was seeing and during what hours. You knew I would bring my old cane to your bedside during the Culverton case. You know _everything_ about me!”

Although the words themselves held a trace of bitterness, the tone in which they were delivered was lighthearted. John even had a twinkle in his eye.

Encouraged, Sherlock soldiered on. “In light of this _new information,_ there’s something I - I would like to ask you. Don’t make a decision right away. Sleep on it, or take as much time as you need to think it over. I don’t want to pressure you - “

“God’s sake. Out with it, Sherlock.  It’s just me.” John smiled, which went a long way towards settling Sherlock’s nerves. He took a deep breath.

“John, it has come to my attention over these past few months that you have become essential to me. Recent past experience has shown me that we both function better together than we do apart. More and more I find that I require your presence to keep me grounded, to keep me from disappearing inside my head and not be able to find my way back. Rosie has become as dear to me as you, simply because she’s _yours._ Please, John, will you consider moving back in? I - I know you don’t _need_ to, not like before, but I’m hoping that maybe you’d *want* to? *I* need it, I need you and Rosie both. Not for the cases… well, yes for the cases, but not _just_ that.”

From the other room, Rosie declared, “She - lock! Lock! Pa pa pa lock!”

Sherlock’s heart twisted. He felt a suspicious prickling behind his eyes. Taking another deep breath, he continued.

“I realise Baker Street isn’t exactly child friendly, but we can adapt. We can put a gate between the kitchen and sitting room, to keep her from experiments. Also, the room upstairs is spacious enough to put in a cot, changing table, and even a rocking chair. Although the rocking chair can be put in the sitting room as well. When she’s old enough to require her own room - well, by that time maybe we could look for a bigger place. Or remodel and connect the basement flat to ours.”

Sherlock frowned. “Wait, no. That’s not quite right.” That wasn’t what he wanted _at all._ He wanted more than just platonic space-sharing, didn’t he, he wanted -

He wanted John in his bedroom and in his bed. In _their_ bed.

“I want to share everything with you, John; my Work, my home… And when Rosie’s old enough to require her own room, I’d like you to move into mine. Because I want to share that with you, as well. Obviously you might not want all of those things, but I have no idea anymore what I might have missed or misinterpreted, are you even interested in that sort of thing… “

His stream of words were cut off when he felt a hand on his arm. Sherlock blinked, and looked up to see John standing over him. When had that happened? How had he walked over to within touching distance without Sherlock noticing?

Sherlock could get lost in the ocean-depth blue of John’s eyes if he wasn’t careful. John was grinning from ear to ear as he nudged Sherlock’s chair around to face him. He placed a warm palm on Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock had to fight to keep his eyes from fluttering shut. Sherlock’s legs reflexively fell open to accommodate John’s presence.

An unfamiliar sensation swept over Sherlock, and he shivered with anticipation.

John whispered, “I thought you’d never ask.” He cupped the back of Sherlock’s head and leaned forward in order to cover Sherlock’s lips with his own.

The kiss was _electric._ Sherlock’s nerve endings sparked with desire as joy and love replaced the emptiness within.

 _Ah,_ Sherlock thought before his brain completely whited out, _An answer that I never saw coming.   How delightfully unexpected._

After several minutes of blissful snogging, Sherlock pulled back just enough so he could look John in the eye when he spoke.

 

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t speak for days on end. Would that bother you? Flatmates should know the worst about each other."

  


***

  


One week after John and Rosie moved in, Sherlock and John went out to Angelo’s to celebrate. They were seated at the same table they had occupied all those years ago. And when Angelo swept over to place a candle between them, they exchanged grins and settled into their brand new beginning.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come check me out on pipmer.tumblr.com!!


End file.
